


fall far from

by wearemany



Category: Smallville
Genre: M/M, Teenagers, Underage Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-24
Updated: 2007-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearemany/pseuds/wearemany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His life doesn't flash before his eyes, and it doesn't feel like a kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fall far from

  
His life doesn't flash before his eyes, and it doesn't feel like a kiss.

It feels like he's choking. Then it feels like he's retching, but only on the inside, reflexive swallows into his own throat. There's an elephant of pressure on his chest, and then something pushing down on his ribs, like a dancing army balanced on top of the elephant. Anything, any torture in the world, would be less painful than breathing. 

He breathes anyway. His body won't let him not. It's never stopped trying that much, that little, to keep him alive. 

He spits up water and only wishes he were dead.

He's not dead, he's being smothered by the guy he hit. A kid with the body of a thirty-year-old professional rock-climber, scared eyes and cheekbones like a ledge you'd hold on to as your last hope.

"Hey kid, you okay?" The day is hard and sunny and the river refracts the light into a thousand swords. The kid slumps forward and Lex puts his hand on the back of a smooth, unscathed neck, slippery skin sliding against his wet gloves. He's not okay. Everything is bright and scratchy and Lex can feel himself falling. Some goddamned miracle.

*

He comes to with dust in his eyelashes, but he's still not dead, just face down in the dirt. The riverbank. There's no sign of his car and even the water is still now. Pebbles cling to his cheek as he pushes himself up. He blinks and everything's back at eye-level, no swooping scenic tours, just him and the kid and they're staring at each other. 

Lex fights a wave of dizziness. He peels shrunken leather off his hands and anchors himself by touching wet flannel with numb fingertips. "What's your name?"

"Clark," he says. "It's Clark. I'm." He looks like Lex feels, like he's been picked up and tossed around and shown his future. No wonder he passed out at the shock of it.

Lex isn't in shock. He's alive, body sore and brain full of static like he's been hit by lightning, like he's been touched by the hot hand of destiny. He smiles and pushes himself to his feet. "I'm Lex," he says, and Clark nods shakily. Lex shakes out his soaking clothes and brushes the dirt from his face. 

Clark is breathing with his mouth open, water still dripping from his hair. He could have risen from the ocean on a wave with a pitchfork in one hand and Lex would have believed it was meant to be just like that, just him and this man and they should both be dead. They're not dead. They're meant for something more.

Clark hugs his knees and Lex crouches down, holds himself steady with a hand on Clark's shoulder. "We're alive," Lex says, and Clark blinks like he's not sure. Lex squeezes his shoulder. "Stay here. I'll get help."

It's not that easy. A guy with chicken coops in the back of his pick-up slows, stares at Lex and keeps on driving. Lex runs his hand over his head and tells himself again that this is how it's supposed to be, that he's had a glimpse of the future. This is the beginning of greatness.

The next car stops and the woman doesn't have a cell phone, but she says, "Clark _Kent_?" 

"I don't know," Lex says. "I think he's in shock."

"Real tall kid?" she says, leaning across the front seat of her old Buick. "Dark hair? Good looking?"

Lex nods, and the woman speeds off with a promise to send back an ambulance and someone named Jonathan. 

*

Clark doesn't look back over his shoulder, just trudges up the riverbank behind his father, staring at his own feet as he walks.

The deputy says, "Jonathan Kent, now there's a man who works hard for a living." Lex unwraps the blanket from around his shoulders and the deputy tucks it under one arm. He points at the crane and the Porsche dangling from its teeth like a carcass. "You want that wreck towed someplace in particular?"

*

Because he's not dead, Lex has to go to work the next morning. His secretary smiles warily and brings him coffee and a doughnut on waxy paper. There is an empty wire trash can under his steel desk, like no one in that office has ever made a mistake. Lex pushes the doughnut to the edge of the desk blotter and covers it with the napkin. 

The day before, his first day, hadn't been so bad, a few hours spent skimming quarterly narratives. He'd left before five, making bets with himself about how long he could just sit in the corner office and let other people run things. Eventually his father would relent and Lex could go back to school and soirees and the social life to which he was accustomed. 

His father must know what happened, even though he hasn't yet called to make sure Lex is all right. Proving his father is right about him hadn't been reason enough to want to work hard. Clark somehow is.

The plant boss stands on the other side of the desk. Gabe seems at least adequate. He is wearing a thin white shirt and has two cheap ballpoint pens clipped to the pocket. His tie is tight and neat today, which makes Lex feel like they've come to some important compromise already. Behind him is a bookshelf crammed full of OSHA manuals, a Better Business Bureau plaque and what looks like a bronzed rock. There is a hard hat on the top shelf, white plastic with a black and purple LuthorCorp logo sticker. 

Gabe hands Lex a stack of dense spreadsheets and says, "So, that boy you hit is a friend of my daughter's."

Lex stares down at the paperwork. He figures if driving off a bridge can't kill him, nothing here, not even work, will be able to either. He clears his throat. "Is he alright?" 

"He's fine," Gabe says. "And you're barely scraped up." His jovial smile fades just a little and fills fleetingly with what Lex guesses must be parental concern. "You both got really lucky." 

Lex smiles. It's been a long time since he's found someone willing to offer an honest opinion. "Clark does seem to be rather remarkable," he says. He wonders what else Gabe or his daughter know about Clark. Does he get run over often? Does he have a girlfriend? Is there any chance he's not still in high school?

"We're pretty fond of him," Gabe says, smiling. 

Lex nods. "I'd really like to offer him some token of my appreciation. Do you know if he has his own car?" Smallville Motors didn't have a particularly notable selection. He bought their only imported sedan and sent for someone in Metropolis to drive down with his old Ferrari later that day. There was a big, sleek truck on the lot that Clark might enjoy.

"His own car?" Gabe chuckles. 

Lex supposes that might seem an excessive gesture, but then again, Gabe's not the one who was dead. "Yes," he says. "He was out walking on the road." 

"I, uh, don't believe he has his own car, no." He checks his watch. "I should really make sure the morning shift got started all right." 

He wonders if Clark and the daughter are more than just friends. Gabe looks like he's waiting to be dismissed and so Lex says, "Thank you, that will be all." It's too formal, too feudal, but Gabe just nods and smiles again. If Lex's father were truly concerned in the wellbeing of the plant he would have merely put this man in charge. Lex must be here for some other reason, some other game. 

Lex calls Gabe back just as the door is closing. "These spreadsheets might as well be written in Greek," he says, holding up a sheaf of printouts. He waves expansively at the mess he's already made. "Except if they were in Greek, I wouldn't be having this much trouble reading them. Can you send someone up to walk me through the first set?" 

Gabe smiles with something like bemused respect. "Sure thing," he says, and shuts the door behind him.

Lex can do this. Be charming, do his homework, make people like him. He presses buttons on the intercom in different combinations until it beeps through to his secretary and has her connect him to the dealership again. Maybe he should buy Clark a jacket to match the truck. Something in black leather with red piping, something to go with his inky hair and flushed cheeks. 

Lex puts his feet on the desk. He's not taking a break so early in the day, he's just waiting for the interpreter to show up. Clark could bring the truck over on Saturdays and wash it in the semicircle driveway. Clark, in jean cut-offs and a tight red t-shirt, a long garden hose in one hand and a big soapy sponge in the other, raised up on his tip-toes to reach the chrome on the back of the cab. He would flip his messy hair out of his eyes and sing along with the radio while Lex leaned against the doorway and watched. He's like a pool boy, only bigger and stronger and right there in Smallville, just waiting for Lex by the side of the road like he knew they had a destiny.

His phone buzzes sharply and Lex's feet hit the floor hard enough to shock his ankles. There's work to do. No time to be wasted.

*

There's no one waiting for him when he gets home from work, no dinner ready because he never told the cook when he'd be eating. No one to talk to about his day, which had lost its luster soon after lunch, boredom shining through like the seat of a middle manager's worn-out suit. He eats cold steak off a plate he finds in the refrigerator and falls asleep reading Scientific American. He doesn't sleep well.

He's still not dead the next morning, but the prospect of another day in that concrete cell, and another, and another, and another, makes having lived through the accident seem like a punishment, and Lex knows it wasn't. It wasn't a morality play orchestrated by his father to prove something about attention and hard work. It was a gift. A second chance.

A half-hour's lesson was enough to explain the financial statements and for him to find some initial ways to improve productivity. He pieces together a plan, sorting and selecting line items from the last consultant's job description. Proximity doesn't actually appear key to ensuring things are run properly. It's the twenty-first century. Surely even in Smallville they understand the concept of telecommuting. He calls his secretary and has her arrange for the castle to be fully networked by Monday.

He swims three hundred laps and eats at the desk in the library. Heike's coming from Metropolis just for the afternoon and he doesn't want to postpone sparring with her, even though he'd prefer to deliver Clark's present himself. 

There's a box of stationary with the books he brought from Metropolis, and Lex digs out his favorite fountain pen and writes out the card, bold purple ink cutting across the parchment. On the fourth try he finally gets it right. 

*

Clark doesn't want the truck enough to defy his father, and even though Lex knows he must be scaring Clark with such big talk about their friendship, he can't help himself. Clark doesn't leave right away. He looks down at his workboots and, after a long silence, laughs nervously. He wipes his hands on his jeans, and Lex says, "Don't worry, I'm not going to ask you to marry me or anything." 

"I, uh, I don't think they allow that in Smallville," Clark says, but he smiles broadly like he can't help himself, either, and leans against the door. Maybe he'll stay a while. 

Lex wipes his forehead again, the towel smooth against his skin, breathing in sweat through the damp fabric. "I don't think they can stop me from _asking_." 

Clark freezes, as if he doesn't know which part is the joke. Lex snaps the towel out with a crack and Clark jumps a foot. Lex steps forward, settling him with a light touch to his wrist. Clark grins.

"We're going to be great friends, Clark. Do you want something to eat?"

*

Clark hasn't graduated from high school, not even close, but he can eat like a horse and probably does twelve times a day. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and dangles long legs off the kitchen stool. He grins from under lush, dark eyelashes and says, "The truck _was_ really cool, Lex."

"I'll park it out back," Lex says. "You can come by and drive it around the property whenever you'd like."

"No." He sighs, deeply and unironically. Lex wants to eat him for breakfast. "My dad wouldn't really see the difference."

"And you?" Lex swallows a long drink of water. 

Clark blinks, and Lex realizes he was staring at the glass bottle. Lex wraps his fingers around the neck and drinks the rest slowly. Clark is paralyzed, captivated, and Lex just barely manages not to laugh out loud. Clark is _fifteen_. Lex isn't sure Clark even knows what a phallic object is, but Lex would happily be willing to enlighten him on the subject.

"I, uh." Clark shakes out his neck and pushes back his stool, coming to life. "I need to get home. I need to. I need to do my homework."

"Of course," Lex says.

*

Clark doesn't have a way to get home, so Lex offers to drive him. He has to go by the plant to pick up a few reports anyway.

Clark gives the Ferrari a long, skeptical look that just barely hides a typical teenage boy's lust for speed and steel. Lex smiles as he opens Clark's door, standing close, and Clark holds very still. Lex wants to lick his neck and Clark almost seems like he'd let him, like he's maybe even wondering how to make it happen. Clark exhales in a nervous laugh and Lex steps out of the way.

"Don't hit your head," he says. Clark folds his long legs into the low seat, and Lex closes the door with a soft push. 

Clark gives Lex the scenic tour with unwarranted enthusiasm. "That's the field where Mrs. Marbury's rooster attacked me when I was twelve," he says, smudging his finger against the window. His hands are broad, wide across the knuckles and strong. Lex flexes his fingers and realizes he needs to replace the gloves he was wearing when he drove off the bridge. 

When he hit Clark. He looks away from the road. Clark is still staring out at the never-ending sea of corn, telling some story about the pecking order of barnyard animals. He doesn't have a scratch on him. 

"Oh," Clark says, and catches Lex staring. He opens his mouth but his brain seems to lag behind, so all he's left with is a smile, tongue pressing against his teeth like he can't find the right word. Eventually he points out the windshield and swallows hard. "Turn up there," he says.

Lex nods, flicking his eyes back, away from Clark's sleekly muscled forearm.

Clark clears his throat and twists in the seat, toward Lex. A drop of sweat rolls down between Lex's shoulderblades. Clark shifts in the seat, tugging at his jeans, and says, "You might, uh, you might want to slow down?"

Jonathan Kent's furrowed brow doesn't look like it belongs on Clark's face, but Lex slides into third all the same. By the time he reaches the mailbox he's doing a respectable twenty-five, barely kicking up dust.

There's a barn, picture-book and rugged, behind it a daisy-yellow farmhouse, the bright paint shining in the afternoon sun. There is something that looks suspiciously like a bale of hay a few feet from his bumper. It's a goddamned ad for country living, or one of those spreads in Beaux Arts on gay dairy farmers. Clark probably has good old-fashioned chores, lots of lifting and sweating and on hot days he takes off his shirt and wipes his forehead with his hand, leaving a smear of dirt along one cheek. 

Clark opens his door before Lex can even turn off the car. "Thanks, Lex," he says, stretching out the name and then looking surprised at himself. He doesn't wait for a response. He shuts the door too hard and the air conditioning is a loud, windy rush that folds around Lex like the eye of a storm. He makes a three-point turn along a split-rail fence and doesn't hit the gas until he's a half mile away. 

*

His secretary is gone when he arrives at the plant, the second shift of workers just coming on in a wave. They don't look any happier to be there than Lex is. Gabe already has his coat on. "Don't worry," he says. "This place pretty much runs itself." 

Lex unlocks his office and picks up three folders of moderate importance off the blotter. He doesn't have a briefcase. He's not even sure he has a fax machine. He fills a file box with a stack of research reports, a half-dozen disks and the bronzed rock and carries it out to the car, dropping it on the passenger seat. There's already a scuff in the leather, possibly from one of the rivets on Clark's jeans. Lex can't remember having had sex in this car, though he'd gladly give up his seat's integrity for the chance to make Clark squirm, make him grasp desperately at the dashboard. 

It's dark out by the time he pulls out of the plant parking lot with one hand stretched out along the headrest, thinking about bales of hay and tight khaki riding pants and whether Clark rides or if their horses are just for work. Lex has had sex in a stable before but he was too young to enjoy it properly. He wonders how Clark is spending a Friday night and whether he ever goes out on dates.

Then he comes around a badly-banked curve in the road and there's a kid lurking at the edge of the field, ethereal and slump-shouldered. 

It could be a bright summer day. He could be nine and running helpless like that afternoon and a thousand nights since. He could be unable to move or stop whatever is happening. There could be a thin, watery voice again saying, "Help me," or he could be hearing things.

He's not. 

*

Clark doesn't say thank you for being cut down off a crucifix, just runs away, clutching his jeans to his chest. Lex has spent his life hating corn and now he envies the flat green leaves and the way they seem to linger on Clark's bare skin, how they are allowed to drag against the edge of the pale cotton boxers clinging to Clark's thighs.

Lex walks slowly back to the road, the sharp edges of the pendant like thorns in his palm. His heart pounds at nightmare-speed, the day's memories long and repetitive, his own special circle of hell. Hell punctuated by Clark Kent at every corner, Clark and his serious eyes and traitorous flesh, alive when he shouldn't be, inconsistently weak and young and full of hedged desire. Lex has spent his entire day caught in Clark's wake. He wants to stay.

He didn't close the car door when he chased after a ghost's voice, and the chime tolls like an omen. He gets lost twice on the way home, unmarked turns hidden by clouds that cover the full moon. He parks behind the rejected truck and is embarrassed by its monster shadow, its schoolyard ambition. The front door is locked, the alarm set, and it takes him three tries to remember which code works for this house. It doesn't matter as there's no security all the way out here to notice or respond or save him from his own mistakes. 

He's been in Smallville for three days and already he's died and been resurrected and failed miserably at returning the favor. He'll have to do better. 

*

Lex can't sleep, not after two drinks, not after a dozen pages about the once and future cosmos. He's in the middle of nowhere, in charge of two thousand people and his own fate and he can't close his eyes because he might miss something important. There is some kind of grasshopper or cricket in his room, hemming and hawing, and eventually Lex gets up and gets dressed again. It's not even very late, just past midnight.

The road winds through pockets of deep darkness, a black hole in his rear view mirror. Lex rolls down the window and his shirt collar flutters against his neck in the breeze. His skin feels new, unused. He was dead and Clark saved him and maybe it's not supposed to be a simple exchange. Maybe Clark wants something else.

He coasts down the drive in neutral with the lights off like he's sneaking out of boarding school. He doesn't get out, just cruises to a stop in front of the bale of hay and squints, trying to figure out which window might be Clark's. There's music down low, a radio, and Lex reaches forward to turn off his stereo before he realizes it's coming from the barn, from a cut-out in the loft that glows with diffuse light.

Lex turns off the ignition and slides out of the car, one hand on the clicking, cooling engine for balance. He takes a long, steadying breath and then Clark moves into the frame of the window, bending to peer through a telescope with an unusually low sight angle.

The rest of the house is silent and shuttered. Clark didn't call before coming over earlier to return the truck. He didn't think he needed an invitation, so Lex shouldn't, either. Lex simply wants to make sure he's okay. They owe each other that much. 

Clark leans out of the window and smiles when he sees Lex. He waves.

Lex takes one hand out of his pocket and holds it up in greeting. Clark's grin opens wide and white, and he points to the back side of the barn. Then he's gone, telescope left in silhouette like a gun in a turret. Lex follows the wooden-planked walls around to a tall sliding door. There's just the one lamp turned on, up in the loft, and Clark leans over the railing, lit from behind. 

"What are you doing here, Lex?" He smiles as he says it, as if to soften the blow.

"I was thinking you might still be hanging around without your clothes on." 

"Oh," Clark says. "Oh. I." His blush is so deep that even in the half-light Lex can see it clearly. Clark rests his chin on his crossed arms, just for a second, like he might take a nap right there against the railing. Then he tilts his head up and experiments with a flirty, adult smile. It fits his face.

There are two flights of rough-hewn stairs and Lex climbs them slowly, deliberately. Clark stands upright and turns, leaning back against the banister. 

"I'm fine," Clark says, letting his arms fall open. His eyelashes flutter as he looks down over his body, like he's double-checking to make sure it's still true.

Lex steps close and touches Clark's elbow. "We'll have to look out for each other, then." Clark nods, a solemn oath given almost too easily. He's staring at Lex's mouth, tilting his hips toward Lex's. Lex squeezes Clark's arm and his eyes flicker up. 

Lex doesn't turn away. It's a long look, a staring contest, an eternal pledge. Clark is breathing from high in his throat, just barely holding still. Lex leans in and up and Clark flinches in his grip. Lex's lips land on the corner of Clark's mouth, glancing off like a rock on a frozen pond. He misses, a square inch of misguided flesh touching his for a flash before disappearing. He _misses_.

Clark's limbs are wiry with restraint but he doesn't shove Lex away, just eases back, separating their bodies. "Lex," he says, voice raw. "Are you -- are you okay?"

Lex is not okay. He's a fool. He's a million miles from home and he can't even manage to kiss a boy anymore without fucking everything up. Clark's looking at him like he's hit his head or something and Lex forces a smile, steps away. "I'm fine," he says. "It's late."

"Okay." Clark frowns with his mouth open, almost a pout, like he's been denied something he's just realized he wants. 

Lex shakes his head again and takes the stairs two at a time. "Good night, Clark," he says from the landing. 

He's in fifth gear as soon as the tires hit the main road, the Kent Farm a tiny star in his mirror. Maybe Clark is tracking him with his telescope, watching brake lights disappear like fireflies. Touching his lips and saying Lex's name to himself, turning off the lamp to sit on the couch in the dark and stroke his chest under his shirt. 

Clark's thick stare and his ripe mouth. Lex breathes in cool night air and puts one hand out the window. This is only the beginning between them.

Lex is okay. He's fine. He's alive.

 


End file.
